


what’s the time?

by youretoolate999



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: ???? - Freeform, Anal Sex, Cigarettes, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Marijuana, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paul-centric, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Smoking, am i really good at any of this let’s be honest, due to impaired mental states and health, i’m not good at sex scenes but..., mentioned briefly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24402532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youretoolate999/pseuds/youretoolate999
Summary: they’re falling apart and paul is the parasitic vine choking its dying tree host, or so he thinks. as one withers, so does the other.
Relationships: George Harrison/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney/Everyone, Paul McCartney/Ringo Starr
Comments: 27
Kudos: 29





	1. are you a fool?

**Author's Note:**

> heyo! this is yet another fic that has sat in a google doc for about a year plus. it’s admittedly rather disorganized and probably sloppy but i tried to put some effort into the editing process, whether it’s noticeable or not. haha. anyway! this starts off with sex and will contain more, pls lmk what needs fixing or smoothing out!! much appreciated :) any mistakes are mine.

paul nodded fervently at the question of whether he was “clean” or not; he’d been able to confirm his cleanliness seconds later when the inquirer entered him and started moving. his empty stomach jolted with the thrusts, making him feel a bit sick. george had a rather large penis. 

paul’s friend was quite good; this wasn’t their first time. the sixties were certainly still swinging, he mused, but ‘69 so far made him want to die. george’s hands gripped paul’s subtle yet soft curves as he fucked him, dick twitching inside the older man as he squeezed paul’s ass cheek with long fingers. 

george moaned out a “you're so good, paulie, so good,” as he thrusted into him at a decidedly nice pace, just fast enough for paul’s liking. the praise george always gave him during and after sex made him feel better than usual; his mate loved him and enjoyed him, even if it was just sex. it felt good. george was a good friend, and told paul that he was a good boy. so much good made him feel, well, good, if only for a fleeting hour or two. that period of ‘good-feeling-ness’ would get paul through the week, and each week turned into another month that he’d gotten through, and so on and so forth. 

regardless, paul liked performing well for george and ringo both, and whoever else might have him for the night. he was(n’t) a whore- he’d been called that before. paul knew it wasn’t… exactly true, or he at least didn’t want it to be. john had told him he was no longer needed or wanted, so paul did what _he_ needed and wanted, throwing any regard for how it made him look out the window. it just so happened that he needed and wanted comfort and reassurance, which was found in the arms of his mates and, quite frequently, their cocks in his ass. 

the friendships were good, the sex even better, and paul was lonely. george loved him, he loved george. unlike john. john didn’t seem to love paul, even though paul loved john. and god, did it hurt. the first month after john stopped loving paul properly was one of the worst of his life. he didn’t just miss john’s dick, no - he wasn’t that shallow - he missed his friend, his lover. the physical parts of their relationship weren’t everything, but they certainly were _something_ , and it was hard to see john and not reach out to touch him, to watch the other man not even hesitate to ignore him.


	2. does it really mean so much to you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paul thinks about brian, among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're already familiar with my work, you'll believe me when I say its rather messy and unorganized which I apologize for. it's much more difficult for me than it should be to have a linear and sensical storyline but shrug lol  
> anyway!!!!! i hope u like this :,) please leave a comment if you enjoyed, didn't enjoy, or something else! I'm a big boy and can take criticism :) <3

ringo had been the first to touch him. 

he hated to admit it, but when the older man placed his hand on his shoulder and offered to light his fag (paul’s lighter had died on him, flicking the thing incessantly in an effort to get it to work), his heart had leaped out of his chest and made it all the way to heaven. he’d missed the simple touches that he’d become accustomed to so, so much. 

that single moment in which ringo’s hand warmed paul’s shoulder through his sweater brought him more comfort than he’d felt in at least two months, if not longer. he’d stopped (consciously) counting the days after john fucked off to spend more time with _her_. 

paul felt utterly deprived and, to an extent, selfishly deserving of some form of love - whatever he could get from and reasonably return to someone. george was a viable option, as was ringo. thinking of brian made paul want to sob so he generally didn’t. 

brian had been a shoulder to cry on when john’s head was too far up his arse to realize that he’d hurt paul deeper than he thought, when his words and thoughtless actions couldn’t be easily remedied by yet another sly remark or an offhand proposal of allowing paul to do the fucking instead later that night. john was utter shite at apologizing. 

brian had been almost a father figure of a sort. paul didn’t feel he really needed another, but nonetheless he filled that role in his kind, posh, well-spoken way.

brian had never fucked paul. paul had never fucked brian. what brian had done was much more important than that. he’d been there for paul no matter what, not ever voicing his judgment about paulandjohn/johnandpaul, not even a critical glance or look, nothing. paul would show up at his hotel room door (or flat, but that was only once in a blue moon), sometimes red-faced in anger and sometimes tear-streaked in defeat; brian would beckon him in, ask paul to leave his shoes by the door, sit the lad down on his bed, and hold him. 

brian never asked for anything in return. he held paul and soothed his hiccuping sobs, listened to his incoherent or enraged rants about how john this or that, rubbing his back, getting drinks for them. he’d watch paul chain smoke as he’d occasionally light a ciggie of his own, leaving paul’s side only momentarily to crack a window to air out the stuffy, smoke-filled room. 

paul thought of the time he spent with the man fondly. 

his heart ached. he swore he could feel brian’s warm hand on his shoulder, he could see brian’s cigar smoldering between his soft lips. 

it only hurt if he let himself think about it. he knew before he lost brian ( _they_ lost brian) but the lesson was only reinforced by his death. it only hurts if you dwell. 

but now all paul had was time. time enough to dwell. he sometimes couldn’t even bring himself to just play piano or guitar or paint or play with martha or read or anything other than sleep, drink, smoke, maybe eat, and most of all just dwell. 

so most nights, he did just that (or those). he smoked half a pack of cigarettes, maybe some weed if he could score any, downed a bottle or more of liquor, made himself something to eat, threw said something up after nearly blacking out, then finally passed out. sometimes it was on his bed, sometimes the sofa, sometimes the floor, sometimes in the bathroom with his face pressed against the toilet seat with vomit on his chin. 

in between those activities was when he dwelled. even during most of them, he dwelled and wallowed. that’s what he did best nowadays. john couldn’t even try to critique him, that’s how good he was at it. not like john even knew; if he _did_ know how good paul was at loathing himself and fantasizing about how he could slip away like a sick dog crawling under a porch to finally die, he would… 

he would laugh. wouldn’t he, though?

john believed the paul he saw. happy and creative and stable and indifferent to the older man’s hatred that was so strong it was tangible in the air. paul didn’t care, did he? paul was a dictator. paul ordered john and george and ringo around, even george martin once in a while if he was able. paul’s clutch on them was firm and john despised the way he glued them together when all he wanted to do was end it. them. 

if john saw how paul really was, he’d laugh. unless he already knew and was happy he was suffering silently behind the mask. his unkempt hair and beard were obvious, undeniably noticeable, but paul was confident in his ability to act ‘normal’ and unbothered to a fault. he’d continue to put on a show until everything was actually okay or it all finally fell apart. his pretending only prolonged the dysfunction in the studio and their relationships and delayed their impending doom. every day that passed saw the storm clouds in the horizon growing in size and severity.


	3. or is it true?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they do be high tho...
> 
> **tw for more obsessive suicidal ideation and drug use (marijuana ;) ** ((so basically on-brand for my shite)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahahaaa so i’m on meds again and wow! i think i’ve found something that works. shoutout to my GP, you’re doing great sweetie 💕 anywho, that means i haven’t been as ~depressed~ and ~unmotivated~, so instead of being sad i’ve been throwing myself into work and overanalyzing the relationships i’ve made with my new coworkers and every interaction. TL;DR i haven’t written in a while but i finally have some more crap that i wrote when the su*c*dal thots hit, hope you enjoy ;’’)

“am i a good boy?” he asked softly. his brain was buzzing from the combination of post-coital dopamine and the marijuana in his system. “i can be good for you. just tell me what to do and i’ll be good.”

george bit his tongue to keep “could you stop being such a fuckin’ prick in the studio?” from leaving his lips. he’d known his friend for a long, long time; now was not the moment to be so brutally honest. “you’re just gear, son. but that doesn’t take into account how scratchy yer beard is on me chest,” he teased instead, poking the man’s cheek. “i’ll let ye take home a blunt or two if you roll another for us, save you from havin’ to score for a bit.” 

paul grinned into george’s chest, wrapping him in a hug. “i can work with that.” he mumbled a thanks but stayed holding onto the man’s lean body. cum was still leaking out of him, dirtying the sheets as he curled his legs up. “it’s still dripping out, geo.”

“need a shower?” he suggested as he brushed the hair out of paul’s face. the gentle gesture reminded paul of john. john would move the sweaty bangs off his forehead after — this wasn’t that. the decade was coming to a close and so were the beatles. this was not that. 

“probably should. gotta wait a minute, dunno if i can stand properly yet.” he closed his bloodshot eyes with a laugh and tried to wet his lips but his tongue just stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

“i’ve got to talk to you after, paul,” george said, voice oddly even. carefully so. 

“‘mkay. i’ll be right back.” 

he slowly opened his eyes and swung his legs off the side of the bed just as carefully as george had spoken. he heard the flick of a lighter as george presumably lifted the flame to a cigarette. 

he entered the master bathroom and stepped into the tub, turning the knobs carefully before pulling the pin up with a wet clunk to divert the water into the shower head. he hissed as the cold water hit his shoulders, retreating to the tile wall as he waited for the mist to turn hot. 

it finally got warm enough for his taste and he stepped back into the spray. he fumbled through george’s bottles of soap as he washed himself slowly but thoroughly, smiling as he rubbed at the faded scars on his hips and the very top of his thighs. john had done the same but never said a word. never. his own calloused fingers didn’t feel the same as john’s did and the skin itched with the need to feel those hands again. 

he winced as suds from his hair slithered down his face and into his eye. rinsing it out as he blinked rapidly at the sting, he decided he was done. the soap was down the drain and his body was as clean as it was going to get, disregarding the metaphorical stains he couldn’t wash off. (he’d tried. the feeling always stayed)

paul groped for a towel and pulled one off a rung that george must’ve put there for him. he stepped out and felt the familiar itch in his throat that told him he needed a ciggie. a spliff would work just as well. paul was the best out of the four of them at rolling a perfect spliff — just the right ratio of tobacco to bud. 

rapping the towel around himself, he wandered out of the bathroom into the bedroom, finding it empty. he laid down on the bed, curling in on himself so the towel could cover as much skin as possible. 

his eyes settled on a framed painting of a pond with a dark, looming forest in the background. he missed being near the woods. to the north of liverpool were thick forests, hundreds of acres of trees and wildlife and untamed foliage. if paul could sink into the layers of dried leaves left over from the fall, down into the soil and past all the roots, further and further down until he hit bedrock, maybe he’d be at peace. 

the dinosaurs had met their end by a meteor and done the same: accepted their fate, drawn their last breath, then perished, leaving their bodies to rot on the surface of the land until their skeletons slowly sank into the dirt. maybe that was the ice age? the ice age wasn’t a fiery inferno, it was the climate changing too rapidly for them to adapt. some shite like that. either way, the creatures of those periods had no escape. the end was inevitable. (what else could they have done? no arguing with fate.)

seems like some shite george would say. going back to where we came from, the circle of life, life goes on within you and without you. george made sense sometimes. other times, paul couldn’t put in the effort to even attempt to understand what the fuck he was on about (though it was probably something he wouldn’t be able to understand). ever since he’d done acid with john and seen the light in india, subsequently converting to hinduism — buddhism? no, he was right the first time. hinduism — george was harder to reach. their language and usual dialogue had become fragmented and garbled. their originally intertwined existences were becoming untangled and diverting paths. the only thing that kept them barely hanging on was the usually distraught and frustrated sex they had on the frequent. the aftermath, at the least, made paul feel better. 

he would be fertilizer. fuckin’ fertilizer. at least he’d help flowers and trees and bushes and fungi flourish. his last burst of creative energy thrown into the earth itself. a combination of constructive and destructive. how poetic. 

paul mindlessly lit a cigarette from the pack sitting on the nightstand as he crawled out of his damp cocoon. 

he couldn’t play guitar or bass or sing if he was dead. 

he couldn’t bear to watch his life fall apart either. 

a voice in the back of his head whispered, oh so softly, that he could rebuild. this wasn’t the end, it didn’t have to be so. 

but, then again, the thing he’d worked so hard for, they’d _all_ worked so hard for, was wasting away. the more he tried to stitch them back together, the more the wound festered, replacing harmony with infection and cohesion with pus. 

paul couldn’t stop thinking about it. everything reminded him of them and how they’d stopped loving each other. _see the love there that’s sleeping_. george saw it too.

**Author's Note:**

> very short, huh. i have more but thot it would be good to break it up? idk. i, for some reason, fuckin love making paul suffer and whether it’s OOC or not, it feels.... like, therapeutic to write him in such dark situations and states of mind. so i’m really sorry. i don’t own the beatles, none of this is intended as defamation or disrespect, any of that bad stuff. any thoughts or critiques are more than welcomed.


End file.
